


Love Enough for Ten Men

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Clothed Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Praise Kink, Revolutionary War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-09 23:32:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7821538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three stolen moments in the lives of George Washington and Alexander Hamilton.  </p><p>Or, all Alex has ever wanted is to be enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Enough for Ten Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theoldgods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/gifts).



> Written for theoldgods for the [Rare Pair Fest](http://rarepairfest.livejournal.com/). Thank you so much for your wonderful prompts - I hope this fulfills them!
> 
> The last part was originally meant to take place the night before Hamilton's duel with Aaron Burr, but George Washington died five years earlier. The meaning is the same, however.

**A Farm, Valley Forge, 1978**

The door slams.

George startles awake, his rifle already cold in his hand before he realizes that there's no one in his borrowed bedroom, casting blood-red shadows across his bed sheets. 

He feels stupid, his bedclothes hitched around his thighs, his legs bare and goose bumped, the hairs on the back of his neck tingling. His rifle pointed at – what? – ghosts, the same ghosts, probably, that have been haunting the camp for months now.

He shoves the gun back under the mattress before anyone can catch him so undignified. 

Then, for good measure, he pulls on his breeches, linen shirt, and waistcoat, shaking the fabric out until it's unwrinkled and approaching distinguished. 

The old farmhouse creaks under his heels, the wood crumbling and molding as he runs his hand down the banister. No comparison, though, to months in tents, struggling to build fires against the wind and the snow and shivering, together, surrounded by nothing but canvas. A house – no matter how old, no matter that they had to take it mostly by show of force rather than revolutionary generosity – is divine.

"Laurens." George nods, when he gets to the bottom and sees Laurens huddled over the table, quill working furiously to keep up with the dictations Alex is barking out from his place by the crackling fire. Alex is hopping in place, his clothes spotted with dirt and melting snow and patches of hay, gesturing wildly towards Laurens with pale, cold-white fingers. George raises an eyebrow. "Do I want to know?"

Alex's head snaps up, a clump of hay falling from his ponytail and crackling as it hits the fire. "Not really, sir."

"Okay." George learned, long ago, to take Alex at face value when his tone is like that. "It's late."

"We just have to finish-" Alex starts.

"I'll just be going," Laurens says, at the same time and over him.

"That would be good."

Laurens packs away his papers and quills, stuffing them in his bag as he shrugs into his overcoat. He holds out his fist for Alex to bump on his way past, and then they're left alone, Alex scowling at George from under puffy, tired eyes.

"Come to bed."

"I have a letter to finish."

"It'll wait 'til morning."

"It can't."

"Well," George eyes Alex's cold fingers pointedly, "I have water warming for a bath. I was gonna use it in the morning, but it'll be waiting for you."

Alex nods absently, and George doesn't wait to hear Alex struggle to get his frozen hands wrapped around a quill before he takes off back upstairs. He strips off his waistcoat, taking a seat next to the fire and opening the latest battle reports in his lap.

He doesn't have to wait long before Alex joins him, both frustration and sheepishness tingeing his cheeks as he slips inside, ruining his careful strides by letting the door slam behind him. He flinches, leaning against it and pulling out a handkerchief to cover his chest-rattling cough.

George rolls up his parchment and sets it aside. "Next time you want to do something stupid and illegal, how about you do it during daylight? It's too damn cold for anyone to catch you."

Alex finishes coughing. "I'm fine, sir."

"Sure," George agrees, pushing his chair out of the way and motioning to the sport directly in front of the fire. "Strip."

Alex pauses for a moment, but his skin is looking rather ashen, and he relents, stepping forward and defiantly starting to undress.

George retreats to gather the water basin, a tall wooden stand, and a stack of towels. When he returns, Alex is struggling with the buttons on his waistcoat, and George hits his hands away, shoving them into the basin of warm water.

Alex shivers, and George bows his head to get a better view of Alex's buttons, hiding his smile. He makes short work of the waistcoat, urging Alex to raise his arms just long enough for George to strip him of coat and linen undershirt.

Then he dunks one of the smaller towels in the basin, squeezing Alex's thawing fingers under the water for a moment before he turns to Alex's chest. He scrubs hard against Alex's skin, massaging sore muscles as he cleans away two days of travel dirt and sweat and chills. Alex shivers under him, squirming until George orders, "be still," and then Alex holds himself straight, only his muscles quivering.

"Sir," Alex whines, when George pays particular attention to the gentle swell of Alex's waist, running the washcloth gently over Alex's hips and dropping just under the waistband. Alex whines again, arching into George's touch.

George tuts, returning to the basin to rinse out the towel. Alex's fingers flex under the water, itching to reach out, to touch, but George scowls and he holds himself back.

George washes his legs slowly, taking to a knee and pulling Alex's breeches down slowly, following, immediately, with swipes of the washcloth and lazy, open-mouthed kisses. Alex's skin flushes and darkens under his eyes, and George continues, washing Alex's knees as he kisses the insides of his thighs.

Alex is breathing heavily, swaying forward, his dick heavy and impatient inside his undergarments, by the time George lowers his stockings. Alex's calves are tight from riding and a fair bit of running, and George kneads at the knots with the towel, rubbing him with painful, rhythmic touches that do nothing to quell Alex's arousal.

"Please," Alex breathes, wrapping his dripping hands around George's shaved head.

George shivers, pulling away. "If you drip on me one more time-"

Alex holds up his hands in apology, the water dripping down his fingers, to his elbows, into the woolen white shirt at George's shoulders. Alex flinches, dunking his hands back into the basin, and bites his lip.

George sighs, taking extra time on Alex's shoes and feet, before he gives in. He spreads his large hands between Alex's thighs, urging them apart and pushing Alex's undergarments to his ankles. Alex groans as George's warm breath hits his erection, already painfully red and swollen.

George reaches behind him to dunk the towel in the basin again, wringing it out carefully before he wraps it around Alex's dick. Alex throws his head back against the mantel, careful to arch his body away from the fire as he meets George's rhythm.

It doesn't take long. Alex's body is aflame with the warmth in the room and George's slow, careful ministrations, and George knows exactly how to twist his wrist at the end of each stroke. Alex is breathing hard, whispering obscenities in French, sharp and quick and breathy.

"Sir, sir," he warns, the water in the basin splashing over as he clenches his fists.

George tightens his own hand, speeding up his movements as Alex groans and comes into the towel.

"Fuck," Alex moans, his legs still shaking and his eyes closed as he struggles to stay upright.

George hums, pushing Alex into a low chair before discarding the towel and reaching for another one. He wraps it around Alex's fingers - noting that they've returned to their normal, darker shades, still rather ink stained but mostly healthy.

"Head back," is all the warning he gives before he lifts Alex's chin and pushes his hair into the now-tepid and only somewhat clean water basin. It's still better than the state of Alex's hair, though, and George spends long minutes picking out clumps of hay and dirt and leaves.

Alex moans at the attention, sounding near a second orgasm as George digs his blunt fingers into Alex's scalp, scratching and massaging. He doesn't have a brush, but he uses his fingers to comb out knots until Alex's hair is fine and dark again, soft to the touch and hanging loose and clean around Alex's shoulders.

By the time he wraps a third towel around Alex's head, Alex is loose and warm, his eyes half-slitted as he peers up at George. "Thanks."

George shrugs. "Come to bed," he says, again.

Alex's eyes open all the way. "I still have that letter to write, now that my fingers are back in working order." He pulls them out of the towel so that he can flex them in demonstration.

George flushes, taking a deep breath as he imagines what those fingers could be doing, if they weren't wrapped around a quill all night.

"We need supplies," Alex pushes, then, "it won't take long."

George grunts in disbelief, but he strips, anyway, and climbs into bed.

Alex looks forlornly at the bed for a moment, before he picks George's woolen undershirt off the floor and shrugs into it, curling close to the fire with quill and paper. The towel is still wrapped precariously around his head.

George watches him for a long moment, before finally closing his eyes and letting the dull scratch-scritch of the quill lull him to sleep.

**Federal Hall, New York City, 1790**

There's a knock on the door.

George leverages himself tiredly from behind his desk, rubbing his eyebrows as he calls out, "who is it?" and doesn't wait for a response.

Alex is framed in his office doorway, breathing heavily and looking flushed, his cheeks dark and his hair sticky around his ears where it's fallen loose from his ponytail. He has a stack of books under his arm, a thick roll of parchment in his other fist.

"You're moving to Virginia," Alex says, without preamble and in the same breathe as, "and my legacy is assured."

George pinches his nose. "Alexander, speak slower."

Alex unfurls the parchment with a flick of his wrist. "My debt plan." He pauses, brushing a piece of hair off his forehead with his elbow, "sir."

"Dinner went well then?"

"Well?" Alex splutters, shaking the parchment until George reaches out to rescue it. "It went spectacularly."

George hums, scanning over the parchment, raising a surprised eyebrow when he sees Alex's scrawl next to Jefferson's and Madison's.

"A compromise," Alex pushes, excitedly, correctly following George's eyes. "Like you asked."

"I see that."

"With Jefferson. And Madison." Alex pushes into the office, bumping against George's shoulder in his aroused state, and drops his armful of books on an empty chair. "With _Jefferson_."

"I knew you had it in you," George says, distractedly.

"Sir-" Alex whines.

"A drink?" George turns, crossing to his small office liquor cabinet and pulling out a bottle of whiskey he's been saving for just such an occasion. He takes the moment to pull at his cravat, letting it fall loose around his neck, before turning and offering Alex a glass.

Alex stares at it.

George drinks half of his at once. "Would you like something stronger?"

"I would like some stronger credit," Alex snaps, before he can bite his tongue.

"Oh?"

Alex straightens his shoulders, in for a penny in for a pound and all that. George wouldn't expect anything less from him.

"Yeah, for three things," Alex offers, raising his hand so he can tick them off on his fingers as he goes. "First, for saving our country from bankruptcy."

He waits for George to nod, slowly, before he ticks off the second one.

"Second, for not stabbing my hand with a butter knife."

George tilts his head, ostensibly looking for blood and trying to bite back a laugh.

Alex scowls. "Third, for not using the butter knife to then cut out Jefferson's tongue."

"That was an admirable display of restraint," George admits. "I thank you for sparing my Secretary of State. A tongue is rather necessary for that position."

"He would have still been able to write letters and decrees," Alex grumbles.

"Sure," George agrees, shrugging.

"Sir," Alex's shoulders slump, his eyelids fluttering half-closed so that he can peer up at George, showing a little deference, a little insecurity. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"

George refills their glasses, even though Alex hasn't touched his, and the liquor splashes over Alex's trembling fingers. He motions for Alex to drink up, as he takes a long draw from his own glass, walking slowly towards Alex.

"A line of public credit and two living cabinet members, what more could I ask for?" George backs Alex against his big, wooden desk and Alex finishes off his glass in one, long swallow before dropping it to the desk and wrapping his fingers around the collar of George's waistcoat. George leans forward, his breath hot on Alex's ear. "You do deserve a reward, I suppose."

"Yes," Alex agrees, hitching his hip onto the edge of the desk and spreading his knees, "I think I do."

George hums, dropping his hands to Alex's waist, slipping the first button out of its loop. "What sort of reward do you propose?"

Alex hums, spreading his knees further. "A reward fitting the enormity of the occasion I should think."

"A nice cake, perhaps," George keeps his voice easy, thoughtful, even as he digs his thumbs under Alex's breeches so that he can flick open more buttons. "I could get Martha to bake something appropriate."

"As lovely as I find the dear Mrs. Washington," Alex says, his breath heavy and catching, "I'd rather a reward from your hands, sir. If that's alright?"

George finishes with the last button and drops gracefully to his knees, pulling Alex's breeches and undergarments with him. "I think that can be arranged."

"I thank you," Alex says, on a whine, as George's mouth opens, wet and warm and strong around him, "for your generosity."

George hums, tightening his throat and holding Alex's hips back against the desk to keep him from thrusting forward. Alex's legs tremble, rising onto his toes so that he can spread his knees even further, holding himself from pushing into George's mouth, his hands, his body.

George pulls back, wrapping his fist around Alex's dick and pressing his thumb against the head. His lips are red and swollen, glistening around his smile. "Good, Alexander."

Alex's pupils widen until his eyes are dark, and he flexes his fingers, scrambling for purchase in the fabric at George's shoulders. "For you, sir."

"Yes," George agrees, licking a wide, heavy stripe up the underside of Alex's dick, "for me."

Alex shivers, leaking onto George's tongue.

George rewards him, twisting his tongue around the underside of Alex's head, pressing hard against the trigger he knows is there, and sucking thickly once, twice, three times before pulling back again.

"I'm proud of you," he murmurs, looking up at Alex and letting his breath whisper across Alex's wet skin. "You did so well today."

Alex whimpers, thrusting into George's hand and bumping against George's cheek.

George clucks in disapproval and Alex's fingers tighten on George's shoulders, sure to leave marks even through the layers of clothing. His knees shake noticeably around George's ears, groaning and moaning around a string of "sir" and "I was good, I'm being good" and "s'il vous plait," maintaining his formality even through his haze.

"So good," George agrees, tightening his fist, "so proud."

He leans forward, loosening his throat and taking Alex in. Alex bucks forward, unable to help himself, and George gives in, lets him, wraps his hands around Alex's ass and urges him forward. Alex groans, long and high, taking the invitation and pushing it as far as George will let him, thrusting wildly into George's mouth.

George is glad that it's late, that he's sent everyone home with the exception of his primary aide, who knows to keep his mouth shut, has in fact proven his ability to do so many times in the past when Alex's mouth has gotten the better of him in this very office.

George lets him be loud now, with his words and with his hips, sucks deeply and swallows the steady drip of precum Alex offers him.

"Fuck, sir, I can't- I'm gonna- Sir-"

George pulls off just long enough to order, "be good Alex, come for me," and then takes Alex deep.

Alex freezes, his whole body shaking as he comes, moaning and whimpering, down George's throat.

George swallows him through it, loosening his hold so that he can soothe Alex's hips and upper thighs, lingering on his skin for long, long moments as Alex's voice and body quiet. His heart rate, though, is still thrumming through his wrists, detectable in his grip on George's shoulders, and George smiles to himself as he rises off his knees, ignoring the way they click and groan as he stands.

Alex meets him, mouth warm and loose under George's. "Let me," he whispers, his hands almost as ineffective as he struggles to get George's breeches open. 

George lets him fumble, already mostly gone, knowing that it won't take long once Alex gets his skin on George's. He focuses on kissing Alex instead, showing his praise through tongues and lips and teeth. He feels it like a bolt when Alex gets his hands into George's breeches, not wasting any time with preamble as he wraps his fingers tightly around George's straining erection.

George stutters, his hips thrusting forward and letting Alex swallow his deep groan and the series of moans that follow it. He feels Alex everywhere, burning hot even through all their clothes, all that heat focused on the small triangle of skin-on-skin touches, pulling all his thoughts to Alex's hand and Alex's mouth.

It's too much, too fast, too intense, and he comes, thick against Alex's fingers and the open fabric between his thighs. Alex laughs, letting him go and wiping his hand on George's breeches, before helping him put himself together.

"Thank you, sir," Alex says, once he's more-or-less presentable, as he reaches for his pile of books.

George nods, straightening his waistcoat and ignoring the way he feels hot and clammy under his clothes. "You did well today."

Alex smiles, small and shy, and repeats, "thank you, sir," before he slips out the door.

**Mount Vernon, VA, 1799**

The door creaks as George slips through it, carefully balancing two glasses.

Alex looks up, his eyes still dark and his lips still swollen, his hair piled heavy on his head against the warm, thick, summer Virginian air. "Thanks," he murmurs, accepting his glass.

"It's a nice night," George offers, taking the seat next to Alex, looking out at his land in the setting sun.

"It's beautiful," Alex offers, even though George knows that it's only for his benefit. Alex prefers the city, prefers feeling close and crowded, like he can disappear and be remembered all at the same time. Virginia reminds him too much of the islands of his childhood, the death and destruction and struggle to survive. Yet, still, he comes here. To, George figures, to reflect and to remind himself of everything he's been through to get to where he is. Of everything they've been through, together, to get to these small, easy, quiet moments.

He looks over, traces Alex's profile with his eyes, illuminated as it is in the oranges and yellows and reds of twilight. He's only dressed in a pair of breeches worn low on his hips and George's banyan, the thin robe hanging open and too large on his shoulders. George wants him again.

"Beautiful," he agrees, instead, meaning his lands, meaning Alex.

Alex flushes, turning his eyes to George's, reaching out to trace his fingers – worn and ink-stained and still the most tantalizing fingers George has ever seen – over the back of George's hand.

"We are old men," he says, quietly, shifting and frowning at the pain in his ass.

George laughs, chastises, "you are not so old."

Alex shrugs. "The lives we've led, they're the lives of ten men."

"Perhaps."

George thinks about the way his bones ache in the mornings, about how much more time he spends just strolling through the grounds, about how many nights he falls asleep reading in front of the fire, even the most scintillating reports not enough to keep him awake.

He thinks about how much time he spends, now, reminiscing about the old days, when he had a war to win and a country to build, all with Alex at his side.

He thinks about how much he's missed Alex's fingers, which are still painting a rhythm on the back of George's hand.

"Perhaps," he repeats.

Alex smiles, a little wistfully, not looking away. "The loves I've had, they're enough, I think, for ten men, as well. It seems I can't possibly have deserved you both."

George turns his hand over, twisting Alex's fingers between his own. "Love is neither deserved nor undeserved."

"When I think about you, when I think about Eliza-" Alex pauses, redirects, "I hope I have returned what you have freely given."

George tightens his fingers, turns his head to look back over Mount Vernon. "You are here, that is enough."

Alex hums, settling further into his chair.

He doesn't pull his hand away.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you've enjoyed this, please leave comments or kudos. Once authors have been revealed, I'll add my tumblr link so you can come chat about anything Hamilton with me!


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